Mercy
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock and Anderson get caught in a cave-in. Anderson finds himself in need, and Sherlock finds himself in an uncomfortable situation. Omega-verse.


Sherlock snorted. "I should let you suffer. You're a complete prat."

"Yes, yes, I know." Desperation filling the voice, "And you've got to know how much it pains me to say this, but _please_, Sherlock. See? I'm begging now. How much further do you want me to degrade myself? You know I'll do anything, _anything_ to make it stop. What more do you want from me?"

"An apology."

"Fine, an apology. I'm sorry, Sherlock, for everything I've ever done or said. You're brilliant. You're not a freak. Satisfied?"

Sherlock mulled it over for a moment, "You didn't mean it. Besides, why would you want a 'freak' like me to help you out?"

"Dear god, I do, I mean it, every word, Sherlock. You're not a freak – now that I've seen how you and John interact, I know you're not. Hard-hearted perhaps, but not heartless. How can you watch me suffer like this? You know you're the only one who can help right now! You know what will happen to me without assistance. Please! Sherlock!" The voice: pleading, desperate, scared.

Sherlock let out a long, exasperated sigh. Truth be told, it hadn't been easy for him to hold onto his vehement dislike as long as he had. "How many days has it been then?"

"Since we've been trapped here, or since…"

"Since the onset."

"Three days. I'm going out of my mind."

"I can see that. Not that you truly had a mind to go out of initially. Why on earth would you come to work in such a state anyway?"

"It was only just starting, thought it would be a normal day, never expected a cave-in - who does?"

"Miners, for starters. We're lucky to have found their emergency stash or we'd both be dead by now."

"Well you're the one who went running on down the tunnels regardless of safety protocols…"

"And you're the one stupid enough to follow because you couldn't stand to lose the limelight. I didn't plan on taking it for myself anyway, Anderson. They're digging. Should have us out within another two or three days. You'll keep."

"You know what that'll do to someone like me."

"Yes."

"Dear lord, Sherlock, show some pity."

Moments of quiet passed as Sherlock mulled the situation over some more, finally demanding: "On two conditions."

"Anything, you know I'll agree to it."

"I want you not only to agree to it, but to keep your word. Can you do that?"

"Yes! What conditions?"

"First, you lay off the insulting names. I couldn't care less, but they bother John."

"Fine. Done."

"Secondly, you never, and I mean _never_ let on that I helped you like this. Does anyone up top know you were…?"

"No, no one. Hadn't even told Sally."

"See that you don't. We go back to the way we were, sans insults, and you never speak of this, all right?"

"Fine, yes. Not a problem."

"I mean it, no change in attitude and don't you dare get attached."

"No, I swear."

"Okay then, over there," Sherlock gestured to a somewhat rubble-cleared corner where a small nest of coats and overalls they'd found in the emergency shelter now served as a makeshift bed.

Anderson scurried to it, his clothes having been shed long before as they felt far too rough to be tolerable on his skin. Sherlock slowly began undressing himself, laying his clothes out carefully, so as not to get them any more dirty or damaged than they had gotten in the initial collapse.

Anderson couldn't help his eyes roving over Sherlock as strip after strip of flesh was revealed. He tried, and failed, not to whine, shifting uneasily.

Sherlock still beheld him with a look of distaste, but he knew to get through this he'd have to shun that attitude, at least for a while.

He finished disrobing and strode over to where Anderson had presented himself on hands and knees, leaned in, and took a deep whiff of the Omega scent practically wafting off the man's body. Anderson shook partly from the anticipation and partly from his own inhalation of Sherlock's strong pheromones which had bloomed in response to the Heat. They took a few more moments just inhaling one another, allowing their minds to grow fuzzy, antipathy toward one another abating as instinct and drive took over.

Sherlock took up his position behind Anderson. This was meant to be a quick, dirty fuck to relieve the Omega of his pent up frustration (and coincidentally of the Alpha's growing desire to mate), not some bonding ritual. There would be no face-to-face, and no matter what his instincts were telling him, no tasting, licking or biting of the Omega's flesh. Just a fast, hard rut to tide them both over.

Anderson was already slick. He'd been ready for quite a while. Sherlock had known of course, could smell it weakly on him even before they'd gotten trapped, but ignored it until Anderson had as much as admitted it and started to beg. Even so, he'd held out as long as he could. He didn't like Anderson, but he wouldn't make the man go mental over it, and there was only so much torment he could put him through.

His prejudices dulled by the pheromones hanging heavy in the air, he allowed his animal instincts to take over, a low growl escaping his lips as he positioned himself and pressed his already-erect cock into him. Anderson let out a keening noise as Sherlock stretched and filled him. Quick and dirty, Sherlock's mind surfaced to remind him for a moment, and with that, he began pistoning rapidly in and out, slamming himself home with abandon, time and again.

Anderson was panting and moaning, leaning his hips up for better penetration. For an Omega as desperate as Anderson had been, he was taking a surprising amount of time to come. Sherlock leaned forward over Anderson's shoulder, nearly growling to him, "Is this okay? What do you need?"

Anderson was barely in a state to form words, but managed to pant out, "Yes. More. Harder. P-please." Which Sherlock was most happy to oblige. Anderson was obviously one Omega who craved it rough. He reigned in his protective streak and attempted to give him what he needed, as well as taking him in the way Sherlock would most enjoy. He snapped his hips faster, rutting deeper and harder than he'd ever allowed himself to mate with an Omega before. It almost qualified as angry sex.

Anderson was sure to be sore for a week, but if his moans were anything to go by, he was enjoying himself immensely. Sherlock felt him shudder and clench around him as he came, tipping Sherlock over the brink as well. He felt his knot begin to swell, then the first burst come inside of Anderson.

Panting, he slowly lay them both down on their sides on top of the small nest of clothing. They'd be tied together for some hours yet, but at least the edge would be taken off of Anderson's heat, and the man would stop begging. Still, to forestall the unpleasant feeling of being knotted to a man he detested, Sherlock nuzzled his face into Anderson's neck and took another lungful of scent, suggesting that the forensics technician do the same, though the glaze over his eyes seemed to imply he was deeply under already.

Time passed and the knot eventually dissipated. Sherlock got up, cleaned off, and clothed once more, then offered to help Anderson with the same. He also felt the need to bring the annoying git some water and food from their meager supplies, but after that managed to reign in his instincts once more.

Anderson still found clothing to be too irritating to his skin, but Sherlock assumed that would pass, as would the smell of their mating, before the rescue crew arrived to dig them out, still a few days hence.

Anderson remained on the nest of clothes, regaining his strength from their mating, wondering why Sherlock wasn't as done-in by it as he was, then remembered that the man almost never slept normally, so this surely wasn't so different.

Truth be told, Sherlock, like it or not, was standing guard, which was silly as there was absolutely no threat down here. He managed to make it look like shiftless lounging, though his eyes kept scanning the room. Luckily, the scanning seemed normal behavior for him, as he did it at every crime scene anyway. He groused to himself internally, this _drive_ to protect _Anderson_, no less, as fleeting as it may be, was decidedly not what he had wanted, and he grew grumpier by the minute.

Looking up from his nest toward Sherlock's surly expression, Anderson caught his eye and merely said, quite sincerely, "Thank you."

And that's the last that was said about it, in fact, the last words that were said for the remaining two days, until the rescue crews came in and Sherlock _accidentally_ set fire to the clothes that they'd mated on.

True to his word, Anderson remained snarky, though did away with the insults, and Sherlock snarled right back. Everyone else assumed the slight lessening of tensions between the two to be the result of having survived a near-deathly cave-in together. And they were right, in a way.


End file.
